


Remember the Magic

by SHARKMARTINI



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Developing Relationship, Future Fic, M/M, School Reunion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:34:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25495444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SHARKMARTINI/pseuds/SHARKMARTINI
Summary: Watford’s 20th Class Reunion offers up a second chance for Baz and Simon.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow, past simon/agatha - Relationship
Comments: 29
Kudos: 230
Collections: Golden Days: a Simon Snow Series zine





	Remember the Magic

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Golden Days Zine.

It’s amazing how some places will always feel like home.

I'm lying on my old bed, feeling the still familiar lumps and divots in the mattress. If the staff are to be believed, they retired our room after I graduated. Something about it being unfair for other students not to have their own ensuite.

It’s a little dusty, a little cramped, but it still smells the same. It still feels the same. If I close my eyes, I can almost pretend that I'm back in school, trying to relax before Snow comes barging in to ruin the peace.

When the door opens it's like I'm willing it to happen.

Snow is standing in the doorway looking lost. He’s a mess, as expected, but somehow I still find it lovely. Tie askew, heavier than he ever was in school— I wondered whether he’d bother showing up tonight.

“Ah, sorry,” he stammers as he finally notices me. “I just— I was hoping—.”

“It’s fine, Snow.” I wave my hand. I’ve been wanting to see him. Had thought about it for weeks— and chosen this suit specifically in a desperate hope beyond hope. I want him to see him, and I’d much rather do it up here, away from prying eyes than down on the lawn and patio. “I don’t mind the company.”

He hesitates, looking surprised, but I count it as a win when he kicks his shoes off and flops down on his old bed.

I want to ask him how he’s been, but he might consider it mocking, coming from me. We’d all heard of course. Before he and Wellbelove had shown up (separately, of course) it had been a popular topic of conversation among our former classmates. The unravelling of a fairy-tale ending— as if half of our graduating class wasn’t already divorced themselves.

I want to say something to him, but as always, I’ve not exactly figured out how to just… _talk_ to him. Luckily for me, Snow has never learned how to keep his mouth shut, it seems.

“I’m surprised you’re here alone. I always thought that by now you'd be married to some posh model type, maybe have a couple of little tyrants running around to help with your plotting."

I sigh and turn on my side to face him, leaning up on my elbow a little.

"I can see you're still the thickest person I've ever met, so I'll spell it out for you. I'm gay."

His jaw drops a little. It shouldn't be as attractive as it is.

"Really? How long?

"My whole life?"

"Shut up. You know what I mean— how long have you known?"

"I've always known.”

"Actually, this explains some things. You did always spend a ridiculous amount of time on your hair." He stops to think, and watching the little wrinkles on his forehead deepen as he frowns is an _experience._ "Wasn't there that guy a year or two below us that was gay? Why didn't you date him?"

"Higgins? Are you mad? I'm gay, not blind." I sniff. "Besides, I fancied a bloke pretty rotten all through school, so it would have been a lost cause anyway."

"Really, who? You were pretty shit to everyone, I can't remember you being nice at all.”

"I said I fancied him, not that I was nice about it.”

“I sincerely hope by now you’ve realized by now why it probably didn’t work out for you both.”

And then for the first time Snow and I are laughing together, safely ensconced in our room.

-

The weeks fly by on my high from the Watford Class Reunion. It’s pathetic, but seeing Snow again— spending the evening up in our room talking shit about our former classmates…

It made me feel more alive than I’ve felt in a long time.

I'm jolted awake one night by the sound of my mobile. I rip off my sleeping mask and make a mental note to drain the caller dry as soon as I figure out who would have the nerve.

I don't recognize the number which means I shouldn't pick it up, but something in me tells me to.

It could be _important_.

"H'lo?"

"Baz, it's me— Simon." Quietly, warbling. Like he knew the call wouldn't be welcome and he made it anyway— the absolute imbecile.

I sigh. "Obviously. Who else would call me in the middle of the night choking on their own tears?"

"Oh shit, I didn't check the time. Go back to sleep—."

"What is it Snow? What do you want?” Whatever it is he wants, I want him to have it. Even if it means missing out on my beauty rest.

"Oh— it wasn’t. It’s nothing. I'm just— I was just wondering if you were up—,"

"Well I wasn't," I snap at him.

"Yeah, that makes sense, I didn't really check the time."

I sigh again. "Snow?"

"Yeah?"

"You want a cuppa?"

"…yeah."

"I'll see you in twenty."

"Okay. Thanks"

"Don't thank me. If I have to be up, I might as well take solance in your suffering. As compensation for my sacrifice."

"Yeah, makes sense."

We hang up. I'm about to text him directions to my place, but he beats me first.

_On my way._

I don't dare let myself wonder how he knows where I live.

—

"I can't believe you watch this rubbish."

It's Friday night, the spring air is sweet, and I came home from work to find Simon Snow lingering on my doorstep with a case of cider and a wrinkle between his eyebrows.

He's much too handsome to be so lonely.

"This is quality programming." He gestures towards the television with the neck of his cider. I watch him take another swallow and find myself wishing fervently that I was that glass bottle.

I shouldn't still feel this way. Somewhere my fifteen year old self is vacillating between despair and hope.

He's so close yet so far from me. We're sitting on opposite ends of the sofa, legs tangled together in the middle.

I couldn't turn him away (I would never). I'd almost ruined tonight when I tried to make him jealous and pretended as though I had plans I'd have to cancel to be here with him. But then he'd looked so sad and was so determined to get back in his car that I'd practically begged him to stay.

And now we're here, watching the cooking channel. Together.

I couldn’t tell you a single thing that's happened on this programme, but it's the best night of my entire life.

_Why me?_ I want to ask him. _Why now?_

But I’m not sure I want to know the answer, the reason he isn’t able to sit at home and wait until it’s his week with the kids.

Which we haven’t talked about. We should probably talk about it. But instead we spend the rest of the night siting on my sofa, legs tangled and leave the important conversations for another time.

—

"I need help choosing a new stain for the fence."

This is the stupidest thing he's ever said. This is a notable moment since most of the things Snow says are stupid anyway. I'd laugh at him, but it feels disingenuous considering how desperate I am to go— suddenly I'm convinced that no activity on earth could be as compelling as wandering around the hardware store with him.

"I would love to go," I tell him truthfully, "but unfortunately it's my father's retirement party later this evening. I need to drive down to Hampshire shortly."

"Oh."

He sounds so disappointed. It should break my heart, but it lifts my spirits instead.

(I'm a disgrace.)

"I don't mind telling you I'm rather not looking forward to making small talk all evening and eating miniature sandwiches."

He pauses. "There's going to be sandwiches?" he asks casually. Too casually.

"Of course, it's a garden party. Undoubtedly my step-mother will have panicked and overordered on the food. She does fuss so."

Snow doesn't say anything, but I can hear him breathing heavily on the other end of the line. _I've got you now,_ I think to myself.

"I suppose you could tag along if you had nothing else—,”

"Yes!" he says so quickly I'm almost embarrassed for him.

He does wonderfully. He makes eyes at the food the entire time but manages to make polite small talk for forty—five minutes until I take pity on him and lead him towards the refreshments. If anyone is surprised to see us here together they're well—bred enough not to comment— even my own father had done nothing but shaken Snow's hand and thanked him for coming— as if it was perfectly normal for Snow to have been invited to an event like this.

It makes me wonder if it could have been this easy twenty years ago. Whether I could have brought Snow home and no one would have blinked an eye. I doubt it— I wonder if this feigned nonchalance is only happening because Daphne has spent decades wringing her hands over my lack of serious relationships and my father is finally ready to accept _anyone_ I bring home— no matter their political affiliations, gender, or magical abilities.

It’s nice to think about though, a time when we were younger, and happier. (I mean for him, anyway. I’m plenty happy now. Happier than I suspect I have a right to be. It’s ridiculous really, I have no idea what any of this _means_ and it’s constantly confusing but… it makes me happy.)

I catch him grinning out of the corner of my eye as I drive us back to London later that night. I want to take his hand, coax that expression into staying, but he’s always been the brave one between the two of us, so I drop him off at home without saying anything at all.

It doesn’t take long for the word to get back to the rest of the family. They must be taking this rather seriously because Dev comes over to ask me if any of it is true.

It hurts to set him to rights, but it must be done. Besides, I tell Dev (and myself), it would never work between Snow and me. I hate children.

"Right," he says, glancing at Mordelia's sonogram that I've displayed on the front of my fridge. He knows her due date is written in red sharpie in my day planner— and underlined thrice. I’d correct his misconception, but being an uncle is serious business. I’m sure he can appreciate that without being told.

It makes me wonder though, late at night. I have no idea what Snow’s plan here is. If my family has begun sniffing around for answers, surely the people in his life are also curious?

I wonder what he’s been telling them, whether or not he’s been saying anything at all.

—

"You should come to my place on Tuesday," Simon tells me, wringing his hands. I look at him from across the kitchen island where we’re sharing a piece of banoffee pie (I still don't like eating in front of him, but he hasn't said anything about the fangs yet. We seem to be on a kind of cease—fire on the topics that could really hurt each other.)

"Oh?" I couldn’t sound less interested if I tried. It’s a complete ruse of course, I’d just rather he didn’t figure out that not only do I already know where he lives, but I frequently look up the area and try to imagine what life could be like if we were actually together.

(There's a bakery near his place which looks _delightful_. I'm sure he's well acquainted with it. Sometimes I imagine us sitting outside on the rickety patio furniture while I feed him scones and he licks the butter and clotted cream from my fingers.)

“Yeah, I mean— just, come to dinner. You should probably— I want you to meet the kids.”

_I want you to meet the kids._

A terrifying prospect. This would probably be the time to mention to him that I hate children, always have. (“You have _four_ younger siblings,” Dev tried arguing, but of course all that did was give me insight into how annoying children could be. The last thing I need is to get attached to three more. And not just any children, but three self—righteous little snots that are certain to be carbon copies of their virtuous father.)

_Sorry, but unfortunately I hate children. All children. And I suspect that your children will somehow manage to be even worse than the usual lot, owing to their parentage. No offense._

That’s what I had planned on saying, but instead the whole thing gets lost on the way to my mouth, and instead I find myself ringing Snow’s doorbell at half six on Tuesday night, arms weighed down with sweets.

"Didn't you try to kill my dad a bunch of times?" the oldest one decides to cut right through the bullshit, getting to the important questions right as I take my seat. I decide I like that about her, I've always appreciated efficiency.

She's definitely the new favourite.

"Not seriously," I tell her, because it's mostly the truth, and because Snow is still wrangling the smallest one somewhere and isn’t around to hear me say it.

She nods like this is acceptable. "And now you're trying to make him gay?" she clarifies.

I choke and side eye her, but she's just waiting for an answer— like this was perfectly reasonable question to ask a practical stranger— _at dinner_.

"I'm not dating your dad." I say, kind of defensively.

"Chill," she says holding up her hands. I'm immediately annoyed at being chastised by a _child._ I decide I was wrong, I actually dislike her the most. Forever. "My friend Taylor's parents are divorced and her mom brings her boyfriend for dinner all the time. Dad's never brought anyone home."

I sneer at her.

"Probably because your dad was too busy casting his benevolence on the magickal world to properly cultivate lasting friendships."

She frowns, and I realize she has no idea what any of that means.

"Whatever," she dismisses me, "we learned about being gay at school. It seems cool."

"Thank you. Your approval is very meaningful to me."

"You're welcome," she says seriously as Snow finally comes back into the room to save me from the rest of the conversation.

—

I'm very obviously snooping through Snow’s bookshelf while he puts the kids to bed. Suddenly I sense him coming back into the room— his pulse racing, and blood pressure up. I straighten up, either he's about to have a heart attack or _something_ is about to go down.

(Crowley, I hope the eldest didn't tell him I was trying to make him gay.)

The look on his face is the same one I've always seen before he runs into danger. I half expect the Sword of Mages to materialize in his hands.

He _sprints_ across the room and I'm so surprised I shift my weight to take a more defensive stance and then—

Snow fucking jumps off his feet and tackles me into the sofa. It's quite comfortable, I decide right before his warm hand grips my chin and tilts my head up to meet his.

_Oh._

We kiss wildly, and I fist the back of his shirt to keep him against me.

I make a mental note to forgive his kid. Maybe I did make him gay after all.

He's got his hands in my hair, and his grip is driving me crazy. This has the potential to get very dirty, very, very quickly, so I pull away with extreme reluctance.

I'm out of breath. It's embarrassing, but he's worse off (he needs to start exercising). We just stare at each other, breathing the same air.

"I talked to Dev the other day,"

I have no idea what I was expecting him to say but this might be my literal last guess.

"What?"

"He asked me if I was planning on continuing to indulge your ridiculous life—long crush."

Fucking betrayer— I have no choice but to immediately defend myself.

"First of all, it's not a life—long crush. I honestly hated the sight of you until at least fourth year."

"Alright, alright. Your decades long crush, then."

“Well it depends— do you plan on indulging me?” I ask, dragging my finger down the side of his neck. I don’t wait for an answer. I’m pretty sure I know already. "Also, could you now please explain to your daughter how being gay works? She accused me of trying to make you gay at dinner."

He laughs and I can't help but smile at him.

"What did you tell her?"

"I told her we weren't dating."

"You liar.”

"But we aren't—,"

"Oh, I'm sorry. Am I supposed to bring you flowers, light some candles and earnestly ask you?”

I grumble, but only because I feel called out. "I mean— it wouldn't be unwelcome.”

"Baz. You pick up the phone when I call you in the middle of the night. You talk me up when I'm feeling down. You've stuck with me through all my divorce drama, and you come over to have family dinners with my kids. We're definitely dating."

He said it. Simon Snow just told me that we're dating. I could die happy. I let myself preen because getting the thing you've wanted more than anything else for your whole life (okay, _decades_ ) feels really fucking good. When I'm done congratulating myself I look up at him to see he's smiling at me.

I want to kiss him.

Again. I want to kiss him again.

"If we’ve been dating, then I must admit you’ve been intolerably stingy in the whole kissing department."

"This is dating for adults, none of this lawless free—for—all. I needed to make sure you were all in." I look at his moles. Into those plain blue eyes.

"I am definitely all in."

"Good," he says, kissing the corner of my mouth. I melt. "Good, me too."

And then his lips are on mine and I don’t want to think about anything else, except thank magic for whatever madness made me decide to attend the Watford class reunion.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for checking it out! 
> 
> I can also be found on [tumblr](https://sharkmartini.tumblr.com/)


End file.
